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LIVING WITH OURSELVES
The Scaffold of Sanity Needs Every Level — and the Building on Which it Leans — to Stand
We’re just one broken plank away from succumbing
The rage and the ruin
Five or six years ago, after a stressful year at work with a coworker who gaslit and undermined me, I found myself in a swamp of constant fury. The most minor setback set me off.
When I wasn’t raging, I wasn’t giving a damn. I was phoning it all in — my job, my family, my writing, all my volunteer commitments. I was gaining weight and none of my clothes fit. For the first time in my life, I didn’t give a shit about that, either. I was going to eat, goddammit. If I could control anything, it was throwing food down my gullet. The sweeter, the junkier, the worse for me, the better it made me feel in the moment.
I was spinning out of control. I hated Furious Me. And I despised Don’t Give a Shit Me even more than Furious Me.
Before things got much worse and I threw away something or someone keeping me alive, I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. She examined me and had me do a short mental health assessment. It was clear to both of us that I was struggling with depression. She prescribed a mild antidepressant…
